What the Blind Man Saw: Seeker Sought
by deaconrayne1
Summary: In the early days of the Fifth Blight: a young Templar, Drachaen, returns to Denerim to discover his mentor, Ser Otto blinded and gravely wounded. He soon finds himself in a battle of wills against the greatest force of dominion the Chantry knows. A prequel to "That Which is Valued Most"


The door exploded outward slamming into the adjacent wall and nearly ricocheting back into the young man who strode into the massive library.

Ser Gelig scrambled to his feet to confront the junior officer, "Ser Drachaen you canno-"

The rest of his protest was choked out by a mailed fist driving his fingertips into the pressure points just under the mandible. The slightest pressure would cause excruciating pain…and more than the slightest amount of pressure was being applied.

The junior officer removed his helm with his free hand and dragged the senior officer closer to him, "Where. Is. He?"

Frantically the man pointed to the cot behind him and the young man dumped the older man aside like so much refuse and hurried to the cot.

"I am your superior officer!" The older man wheezed.

"No," the young man replied, "Merely a higher ranking one," He impaled the other man with a dead stare, "…for now."

"Drachaen," The wounded man on the cot wheezed, "Stop torturing that poor man."

Drachaen knelt by the cot and took in the state of the man, "Otto…" He whispered.

"Oh dear," Otto coughed wetly, "You're forgoing the usual formalities. I must look a fright."

"Your injuries are severe," Drachaen confirmed, "I cannot guarantee your survival."

"Your bedside manner is sorely lacking, my young squire."

Carefully, Drachaen removed the various balms and oils from his pouch and applied to the older man's severe burns.

"What happened Otto?"

"The maleficar was…more prepared than the Chantry had let us believe."

"The Chantry believes that every maleficar can be brought to heel by an overabundance of righteous zeal and brute force," The scorn in the young man's voice could not be more pronounced.

"They're not usually wrong."

"They only have to be wrong once," Drachaen continued to apply balm to the extensive burns, "Case in point."

Otto's mangled features still managed to look scornful, "Do you know that _doing_ right is often more important than _being_ right?"

"Does the moral high ground offer some tactical advantage you have not seen fit to impart upon me during my education?"

"I would really like to believe that one day you will come to appreciate the value of things beyond tactics and advantages."

"Seeing is believing is it not old friend?"

"Some things are true whether they can be seen or no."

"Sergeant Drachaen!" a voice boomed from behind them.

"I do not believe that day will be today," Drachaen commented as he got to his feet to face the oncoming storm.

"Once again, squire, you are right."

The previously maligned Lieutenant had returned with another man of a stately demeanor accompanied by an honor guard bearing an ornate standard.

Otto's sightless eyes flicked over, "Reinforcements?"

"Their armor is of Ferelden design," Drachaen murmured inhaling deeply, "They use blood lotus oil to tend to their weapons and armor and they possess a ruddy complexion."

"Do they bear a flaming eye?"

"They do."

"Seekers of Therinfal Redoubt," Otto's already tense face became even more so, "Watch yourself lad."

The knight in the lead, the commander presumably, advanced ahead of the rest with only two of his honor guard accompanying him and Ser Gellig who hovered nervously behind. The man's ornate helm hid his features from sight as he stood before Drachaen.

"Do you know who I am, Sergeant?" The man demanded.

"Should I?" Drachaen replied calmly.

"Mind your tongue, cur!" One of his honor guard, a woman by the sound of it, snapped. She looked uncomfortable as she fidgeted with the lames of the fauld that protected her abdomen.

"If you are overheated Ser Knight, you may wish to remove your helm." Drachaen pointed out calmly.

The woman hesitated until her lord gave her a sharp nod. Angrily she wrenched the heavy templar's helm from her head and ran her mailed hand through her sweat matted hair. Her flushed features scowled at Drachaen who inhaled deeply and made a mental note. "Better?" He asked her politely.

"I am—"

"You are Lord Seeker Van Ruthen of the Van Ruthen family of Northern Orlais,kinsmen of the Montbelliards of Churneau formerly of Tevinter and most recently of Rivain."

There was a long pause. The woman accompanying him looked flabbergasted, Ser Gellig looked unsurprised in the least. Only the man behind the iron helm remained unreadable.

"We have not met before." Lord Seeker stated.

"No."

"We told no one of our arrival."

"As you say."

"Then where did you receive this information?"

"From you and your compatriots just now, Ser Van Ruthen."

" _Lord Seeker_!" The woman fairly roared, her facebecoming even more flushed and her tone shaky.

"Explain yourself."

"Your armor of the finest quality. It suggests nobility. The materials involved consist of Lazurite and Nevarrite which gives it a darker appearance than standard silverite which is more commonly found in Southern Orlais or amongst the Wardens. These materials mark you as of northern descent and there are only three families with ties to the old nobility of northern descent that do not reside in Val Royeaux: Houses Ghislain, Morrac and d'Argent none of whom have heirs to spare for the Chantry, which leaves the minor houses; the wealthiest being the Montbelliards of Churneau. Since the Montbelliards have only daughters to their name, you must be a distant relation and only the name Van Ruthen appears in the Chantry's genealogical records as being noteworthy."

The assembled knights began to look angry except for the masked Lord Seeker.

"And Tevinter?"

"Your belt is made of dragonhide. Slaying such a beast purely for vanity's sake would be extreme faux pas in Orlais- less so in regions less beholden to the Chantry. The embroidery worked into the leather is similar to examples of Tevinter drapery seen in the palace of the black divine and it is knotted in the same fashion favored by Tevinter bakers, the same as your cloak.

"And Rivain?"

"Your armor is freshly polished with blood lotus oil which is common near your stronghold of Therinfal Redoubt but you've also applied mariner's wax to it, so named in that it prevents salt water corrosion," Drachaen pointed at the woman,"Your honor guard claws at her abdomen as if her armor no longer fits properly and stinks of ginger in her sweat. Ginger is used to treat morning sickness common in pregnancy," He allowed himself a slight smile, "I had heard tales of the young boys on the Antivan docks with their sweet eyes but I confess I have never known the pleasure myself."

The female knight opened her flushed mouth to scream her denial…and promptly vomited upon the floor.

"Your witness, Ser Van Ruthen

Slowly, The Lord Seeker removed his massive helm: his face was stern to the point of glacial. Few there were who could look up at The Lord Seeker's face without blanching. It was a face devoid of any human emotion. Even anger showed only in the twitching of a muscle along his square jaw. His eyes were flat black and colder than the space between the stars. Drachaen studied this face carefully and made a note of it.

"So it is true," The Lord Seeker finally stated, "You are 'The Great Detective' as they call you in some circles; a throwback to the Inquisition of old."

"What is the Inquisition of old?"

"You do now know?"

"I do not."

"What the 'great detective' admitting he doesn't know something," Ser Gellig sneered.

"There is no shame in admitting ignorance, Ser Gellig," Drachaen admonished the other man coolly, "Only in reveling in it to overcome the appearance of your own shortcomings or as an attempt of a display of piety."

"You Bastar-!"

"Get out Gellig," The Lord Seeker bit out.

"But-?"

"He said out!" The woman, having regained her footing, roared and grabbing the man by the collar, hurling him bodily through the door. She stepped back to her place, a slight sway in her walk betraying her exhaustion.

"There are some concerns however, Sergeant Drachaen," The Lord Seeker continued, "About your dedication to our sacred mission and the Maker's will."

"Were there any in particular that concern you, Ser Van Ruthen?"

"You have logged almost twice as many hours afield than any other Templar stationed here."

"I prefer to be out in the field where I may be of use to the people."

"And yet, to date you have yet to slay a single maleficar."

"That's also accurate."

"Do you have an explanation for this?"

"'Benedictions 4'."

"Blessed are they who stand before the corrupt and the wicked and do not falter. Blessed are the peacekeepers, the champions of the just," The Lord Seeker recited from rote.

Drachaen nodded.

"The passage continues, 'Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood the Maker's will is written," The Lord Seeker finished, condemnation in his tone, "Yet you have shed no maleficar blood."

"Because it is in OUR blood the Maker's will is written," Drachaen replied deftly sidestepping the Lord Seeker's unspoken accusation, "We are not assassins, Lord Seeker; we are not knives for hire," He gestured at the woman, "You may find those in abundance in Antiva; given your fondness for the local peoples already."

"Fiends take you!" The woman spat.

"Here are the facts, Ser Van Ruthven," Drachaen countered. I have hunted 16 maleficar this year alone and we are not yet at harvest time. Of those sixteen I Have returned sixteen to face the Maker's justice. The MAKER'S Justice," Drachaen reemphasized "Not my own bloodlust or overinflated sense of sanctimonious wrath."

"And if the Maker's justice calls for death?" The Lord Seeker retorted.

"I am a champion of the just, as you said," Drachaen said simply, "Not an executioner of the condemned," He gestured to where Ser Gellig had departed, "You may headsmen a plenty garbed in the vestments of faith in Templars such as Gellig and his ilk."

"Blasphemy!" The Female knight cried.

"But if it is my martial prowess that concerns you," Drachaen put aside his ointments and beckoned to one of the servants with a large broom, "Cressus, if you would please."

"My lord," The servant bowed.

"He looks familiar," One of the other honor guard, a Ferelden by his accent commended.

"I imagine he does," Drachaen acceded, "A few months ago he was more colorfully known as "Cressus the Mad: the Maleficar Scourge of the Northern Coasts."

The knights assembled gripped the hilts of their weapons in all haste, save the Lord Seeker.

"And he surrendered to you?" The Lord Seeker commented.

"He did…after summoning forth a mighty demon made of his own arrogance and the essence of the storm.

"A pride demon?" The previous honor guard gaped.

"A pride demon," Drachaen confirmed.

"Respectfully, my lord," Cressus said quietly, "It was _two_ pride demons."

"That's right, I had forgotten."

"How did you defeat them?" The knight asked agape.

"Cressus was the son of a fisherman," Drachaen explained, "The sea and storm is second nature to him and in his heyday he was a prideful man. The nature of guardian he would summon was obvious: I took precautions against its power and defeated it."

"'Them', my lord."

"Them," Drachaen admitted

"And he surrendered to you just like that?" The Lord Seeker cut in.

"No," The young man shook his head, "He was prepared to fight me to the death wielding nothing more than the broken shaft of his valenwood staff to protect him. It had been a children's toy originally you see. A gift from his mother in the alienage. Some sort of mallet carved from their sacred tree said to be stronger than iron."

"And?"

"And instead of fighting, I simply made him a promise: that he could keep a piece of his staff with him to remind him of happier days and a mother's love and that he would be granted a fair trial."

"And that is all?"

"Apostates and Maleficar are not all completely devoid of sanity; they want to live, same as we, Ser Van Ruthen. If confronted by the specter of certain death with the possibility of torture, public shaming and rape added in, as most templars present themselves, they see no reason not to die. If presented with an alternative that will allow them to retain their dignity if not their lives in the end, most are prone to at least consider it."

"Concessions in the face of abominations is an affront to the Maker!" The Female knight raged.

"Diplomacy and negotiation from a position of strength protects the lives of everyone involved, a virtue lauded by the Chant I am told," Drachaen's eyes narrowed "Unless you believe that Andraste's plan was to _carve_ The Maker's kingdom out from the peoples of that ancient world."

"There is also concern that you have refused direct orders," The Lord Seeker asserted, "On no less than three occasions you refused to hunt down a particular Maleficar."

"That is correct," Drachaen confirmed.

"That is treason!" The woman hissed.

"On at least three occasions, I informed my superior officers I would not waste time nor resources attacking an enemy I was not prepared to defeat. The most recent one occasion involving a visiting Knight Commander. Meredith, I believe her name was.

"Knight Commander Stannard would have had your head!" The female knight snarled.

"She called for it after calling me a traitor and sending someone else in my stead to bring her her apostate," Drachaen's expression turned sorrowful and he slowly regarded the burnt form of his mentor, "We can all see the results of her folly."

"You dare?!"

"If the knight-commander objects, she is free to come down here and do so in person," Drachaen shot back, "Except that I imagine she is currently riding back towards Kirkwall with all haste after having seen your order's banners on the horizons: eager to allow the insubordinate sergeant take the blame for her failure in the eyes of the Seekers."

"Enough Sergeant," The Lord Seeker, "Your success and talent protects to a point and no further. Speak plainly. What do you want?"

Drachaen eyed the man calmly, "I want to become a Seeker, Ser Van Ruthen."

"Are you mad?" The female templar blurted out, "Why on earth would we accept a bastard like—"

"What is your name, Ser Templar?" Drachaen interrupted.

"Ser Rylock," She replied stiffly, "And you will address me as "Seeker Rylock".

"I will do such thing. You are not a Seeker."

Ser Rylock drew her sword, "Cur!"

"Consider this: you have been impregnated by an Antivan most likely right under the nose of your supposed lord commander; hence your consumption of ginger in large quantities to alleviate your morning sickness which you probably at first mistook for sea sickness. Your armor strains against the swelling in your abdomen yet you make no effort to have it adjusted suggesting that you are going to great lengths to conceal your condition from the Lord Seeker. So unless the prerequisite physical requirements for Templars to be in peak physical and mental condition before being accepted into the Seekers ranks have dropped dramatically, you are not a Seeker," Drachaen turned to the Lord Seeker, "Unless of course the child is _yours_ Ser Van Ruthen and you are making an exception?"

The muscle in The Lord Seeker's jaw begin to twitch.

"You didn't know, did you?"

"My lord I-!" Ser Rylock began.

"There ARE no exceptions to the law Ser Rylock. A woman with child cannot be admitted into the Vigil," The Lord Seeker turned his implacable gaze on her, "You are disqualified."

"Then it would appear," Drachaen said smoothly, "That you have an opening."

"Sergeant"," Ser Otto whispered from the cot. Drachaen turned and knelt by the burnt man.

"Be still, old frie-"

Ser Rylock screamed, tore her sword free from its scabbard and charged the kneeling man.

"Drachaen!" The old man cried out at the sound.

"My lord," Cressus said with all the exclamation a Tranquil could manage, sliding his broom across the floor to Drachaen. The young sergeant snatched it up, pivoted and swung it up with all his might…

…right into Ser Rylock's lower abdomen.

She gasped as she felt something break inside and she folded in half to meet Drachaen's clear blue eyes,

"Ginger when taken in small quantities can alleviate morning sickness," Drachaen whispered to the woman whose face had gone white at the sight of blood trickling from underneath her codpiece to trickle red down her the inner surface of her cuisse, "An overdose however can result in an unstable pregnancy, especially if further exacerbated by wearing armor that constricts the development of the womb. A sudden concussive force has always been the weakness of our armor as you are no doubt experiencing with your internal organs pulverized."

"P—please ser," Ser Ryloth whispered, "Mercy."

"There is indeed a time for mercy," Calmly Drachaen swept the woman's feet out from under her, depositing her on her back with a crash before a large oak bookcase, "And then there is a time to make an example."

Drachaen wedged the broom under the foot of the bookcase, twisted once-

"NO!"

..and the entire bookcase came crashing down onto the woman, pinning her just across the abdomen.

The assembled Templars looked shocked and even The Lord Seeker looked momentarily taken aback.

"Oh Drachaen" Ser Otto whispered hoarsely, "What have you done?"

"Some things have to seen with your own eyes," Drachaen replied before turning his attention back to the Lord Seeker, "Are there any further concerns about my willingness to do what must be done to execute my duties to the fullest extent of the Maker's law?"

A long silence that was only punctuated by Ser Ryloth's broken weeping upon the floor.

"There are not."

"You're a monster!" The young templar whispered, his face still registering shock.

"And your name Ser Templar? Drachaen asked politely.

"Cu-Cullen, Sergeant." the young man managed, "Cullen Rutherford of Honnleath."

"You are far from home Ser Cullen of Honnleath. Freshly anointed and on your way to your first assignment?"

"Yes, Kinloc tower."

"Ah," Drachaen said approvingly, "Grand Enchanter Irving and Knight Commander Gregoire. I have had dealings with them; you will do well there I think," Drachaen gestured at Cressus, "A final lesson then, young knight: your wards are not demons and your fellows are not saints, we are all just men in the eyes of the Maker. Remember that and treat all with fairness until given reason to do otherwise," Drachaen gestured at the prone woman slowly being crushed on the floor, "Or suffer the consequences."

Cullen nodded and said nothing further.

"Very good then," Drachaen handed the broom stick back to the Tranqul, "Still strong as iron," He commented thoughtfully.

"Yes sir, thank you sir. Sir, your finger is broken," Cressus commented plainly.

"Hmm?" Drachaen looked down and shook his head, "No, merely dislocated from the force of the recoil," He gripped, twisted and jerked forward. There was a snap and the young man exhaled quickly, "That should suffice until a healer can see to it. Thank you Cressus."

"Yes, sir."

Drachaen turned to the Lord Seeker, "Your decision?"

The Lord Seeker pursed his lips, "You are ruthless, manipulative, ambitious and all together insubordinate and monstrous and by all rights I should have you drawn and quartered.

"A waste, I should think."

"Sometimes an example must be made."

"To whom, Ser Van Ruthen? The Tranquil? They no longer understand fear," Drachaen smiled thinly, "But they do understand loyalty, as you have seen."

"Indeed. Very well then. I ride for Therinfal after Kinloc. Should you successfully reach the hold before I do, you will be admitted into our ranks of the Seekers.

"And if I fail?"

"Then it will not be such a waste to have you publicly executed for your disobedience."

"Then I shall see you at Therinfal Ser Van Ruthen."

"And one more thing?"

"Of course."

"You will address me as Lord Seeker upon our arrival or it will be your head. Are we clear, Sergeant?"

Drachaen's eyes did not waver, "Perfectly clear Ser Van Ruthen."

Without another word, The Lord Seeker replaced his helm and walked out.

"Lord Seeker," Ser Cullen spoke with great deference, "We cannot leave Ser Rylock thus."

"The Sergeant made the mess, he can clean it up! We leave at daybreak!"

The other Templars hurried to follow the Lord Seeker save Cullen who lingered eying Drachaen distrustfully.

"I will confess," Drachaen admitted, "I am not strong enough to lift the bookcase."

"You were strong enough to drop it on her!"

"That was not a matter of brute strength but of leverage," Drachaen's eyes glinted with mischief, "A difference you should come to appreciate."

"My lord," Cressus interjected, "I believe leverage can again be used to assist us."

"Quite right," Drachaen agreed before turning his attention to Ser Cullen, "But first a question: how does a raw recruit find himself in such august company as the Lord Seeker?"

"It was on the way?" Cullen offered mildly.

"And would be in no way an attempt for the Lord Seeker to place agents loyal specifically to him rather than the Order in key positions of influence?"

"Sir, I have no influence to speak of," Cullen protested.

"Not yet," Drachaen commented stroking his beard thoughtfully, "But I have an eye for potential you see, and I believe that one day, you will."

"I—thank you sir."

"Now, I will help your dim-witted friend here on one condition."

Cullen was instantly wary, "And that is?"

Drachaen gestured towards Cressus, "Take Cressus with you. Even though he cannot feel fear, I can and I do fear for his safety with Lieutenant Gellig still in command."

"And this would be in no way an attempt for you to place agents loyal specifically to you rather than the order in key positions of influence, would it?"

"Ha!" Drachaen laughed, "You see? Potential!"

Cullen sighed and then nodded, "Very well, but I cannot introduce him as he is known currently. He is a maleficar of renown."

"The Tranquil are invisible to the Templars but you have a point," Drachaen turned his attention to Cressus, "You my friend shall require an alias."

"By what name shall I be known sir?" The Tranquil asked plainly.

Drachaen's lips curled in a smile and he knelt by the wounded Ser Rylock, "Can you still hear me?"

"Fiends take you!" The woman whispered through bloody lips.

"It was your own indiscretions that has brought you to this end, assume responsibility for them. Before you are permitted to rise: a question."

"What?" She spat.

"What would you have named your child?"

Her expression broke then and her face took the terrible contenance not of an enraged templar but a mother grieving the loss of her child, "Owain," she sobbed, "After my father."

"Take heart, Ser Rylock; your son is dead but his name lives," Drachaen stood and turned to Cressus, "You will be 'Owain' then, old friend. I imagine with your talents will not be hard to ingratiate yourself amongst your peers. You were always a gifted archivist, perhaps you should consider a similar profession."

"Yes, sir. And if people ask from whence I came?"

"Well shave your head and tell everyone you're a failed apprentice who opted for the Brand rather than the Harrowing; it's a common enough tale," Drachaen's lips quirked in a smile, "I imagine we should both be grateful you can no longer experience your infamous pride."

"Yes sir."

"Help Ser Cullen with his companion and then get some rest, you both have a long journey ahead of you."

"Yes sir, thank you sir."

Drachaen nodded and turned to Cullen, "Bear in mind Ser Knight, he is not an _agent_ he is a _friend,"_ Drachaen's eyes narrowed dangerously, "I shall take it very poorly if he comes to harm whilst under your watch, am _I_ perfectly understood?"

Cullen nodded with gravity, "You have my word, Ser Knight."

"Then go help him fish what's left of your friend from out beneath the bookcase, I have a final matter to resolve."

Cullen saluted and departed to assist the tranquil with Ser Ryloth.

Drachaen knelt by Ser Otto's cot and took his hand, "You will be safe here old friend."

"Far safer than you, you mad half-wit!" Ser Otto coughed from the exertion of his scolding, "You are walking straight into the dragon's den, spitting in his eye and then stick your head in his mouth!"

"It does appear that way," Drachaen agreed.

"Your first mistake will be your last!"

"Then I had best not make any mistakes."

"Damn you, you arrogant, crazy, blind—"

"If I am blind," Drachaen said with a smile, "Then I am in fine company."

Ser Otto squeezed the young man's hand tightly, "Andraste bless you boy. I have never known a more clever or capable man, Templar or not. You are great man, Drachaen, it is my hope that one day you will become a _good_ man."

"I need only to look to your example."

"Don't blow sunshine up my arse!"

The men shared a laugh before a coughing fit caused Otto to cease.

"You plan to leave tonight, don't you?"

"As soon as we are done here, yes."

"By what road?"

"I have sent missives to my allies in the surrounding towns with information from our scouting reports: the local militias have done an admirable job driving the bandits from the smaller territories back onto the main highway where the king's men can deal with them."

"So you mean to travel the wilds then?"

"I mean to find the maleficar who did this to you first," Drachaen commented grimly.

"My boy, no!" Ser Otto hissed, "She was no simple maleficar! She managed to set the very air aflame! Her form shifted from one to the next. She had a little girl hostage and we-"

"Not hostage: bait," Drachaen contradicted, "No child could survive the Wilds without being in league with a powerful force, such as this mage."

"Beware her power!" Otto rasped

"I shall do so," Drachaen assured him.

"How will you have time to hunt her and still reach Therinfal?"

"The Lord Seeker will take those main roads I mentioned earlier which are now crawling with bandits thanks to the efforts of the militia."

"But the kingsmen-"

"Are engaged against the Darkspawn if rumors are to be believed, meaning that the Lord Seeker should find himself much delayed.

"A happy coincidence."

"There are no coincidences," Drachaen smiled thinly, "Who do you think sent word to Therinfal in the first place?"

"You, but why?"

"Can you think of a better way to chase off that horrid woman?" Drachaen sighed and shook his head, "I only wish she had not sent you in my stead."

"What is done is the Maker's will."

"Then the Maker has a _great_ deal to answer for."

"That pride of yours will blind you, son," Ser Otto warned, "Just as surely as that maleficar's fire has blinded me."

"Well then, when I confront her, we shall see if she shall insist on fighting to the death…or if she is open to alternatives."

Drachaen bent over and kissed the old man on his burnt cheek, "Goodbye my friend. I loved you as a son, and as a student, and as a friend."

Ser Otto took the young man's hand in his and kissed it, "The Maker and Andraste watch over you."

"And you."

Drachaen stood and turned away then stopped regarding his old friend one last time, "The maleficar in the wilds. What was her name?"

"The Chasind said she was a witch and called her 'Sul'," He replied, "It means 'clever'."

" 'Sul' then," Drachaen nodded, "I shall remember that name." 


End file.
